


They'll Like Me When I'm Sick

by NozomiMatsuura (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boss/Employee Relationship, Bullying, Crimes & Criminals, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Gen, High School, Hurt Peter Parker, Identity Reveal, Kinda, M/M, Misunderstandings, Molestation, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Prostitution, Stephen Strange is a good bro, Whump, doesnt want to, killed a bunch of people so theyre not BEING nice, kinda but he like, like theyre nice people but, tAGGING as i GO so like, the avengers arent all that great, they think peter like, you might not like how this ends upg oing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/NozomiMatsuura
Summary: Peter Parker is NOT a criminal. Sure, he's made some mistakes when it comes to webbing up the wrong people, but that's not his fault! So why are the Avengers suddenly calling him one?(A.U. - Post Spider-Man: Homecoming, Peter did it all by himself & was never recruited for Civil War. Nobody (*excluding Ned*) knows Peter's identity. May died shortly after the end of Homecoming and Peter has to work two jobs to pay rent.)





	1. I'm So Concerned About The Ending, That I Don't Even Know The Plot

 

 _Fuzzy feeling and I miss you_  
_Why can nothing stay the same_  
_Fucking stupid head I’m gonna kill you_  
_Melt all your art and drink the paint_  
_I am not a beast I’m not a monster_  
_I don't care what you say_  
_You can’t have the bad guys without a hero_  
_And I’m the only one who’s got a cape_

_**Cavetown - Pigeon** _

 

 

* * *

"Thank you, have a nice day!" Peter called to the customer who walked out of the deli without a glance back at him. He instantly dropped the fake smile he plastered on his face whenever customers were around and went back to slicing a large pile of tomatoes Ilia had left for him to stock the slowly emptying bins.

His cuts were quick and clean, the pile growing smaller as the minutes passed by. He had a pair of five-dollar headphones in his ear, and they crackled angrily every time he made a sudden movement. He hadn't been working at the deli long, but after... after May passed, he had so many bills to pay and her savings were running out a little too quick for Peters liking.

The deli was named Yakutsk Deli, a small and tacky attempt at a bohemian style deli that you often saw dotting the streets nowadays due to the style slowly becoming popular again, mostly due to Starbucks own bohemian vibe. His manager, Ilia, was a middle-aged Russian man who loved to curse and listen to 00's rap music on his Bluetooth speaker that he seemingly carried everywhere.

Out of the two jobs he worked, he definitely preferred this one. During the weekends he'd babysit in Forest Hills for a friendly couple and their three demon spawn children. They paid too much, but Peter wasn't complaining. But, the twins they had were absolute nightmares. They'd pull his hair and kick his shins, screaming and screaming until they got what they wanted. Peter _definitely_ wasn't having kids.

Peter snapped out of his thoughts as his watch began beeping loudly and he realised his shift was over.

"Ilia! I'm going home!" He called, pulling his black hoodie over his tacky work shirt and slinging his bag over his shoulder, static whining into his ears through his cheap headphones.

"What you say, kid?! You know I can't hear with music on." Ilia called back, stepping out of his office and leaning against the doorframe, staring Peter down.

"I'm going home," Peter repeated himself slowly, gesturing towards the door with his hands, raising an eyebrow at Ilia who just scowled back at him half-heartedly.

"Then go, boy!" He waved his hands at Peter and Peter smiled back at him. Ilia liked to act as if he was some bad-ass, mean manager who didn't take your shit when in reality he was actually pretty cool.

"Уви́димся!" Peter called over his shoulder as he walked out.

"До за́втра!" Was Ilias response as the door swung shut behind Peter and so he began the long walk back to his empty apartment.

 

//

 

Peter turned the key in the half-rusted lock and the wooden door of his apartment swung open. He chucked his bag on the floor and looked over at the couch. Just two months ago, May was sitting there and telling him all about the hike she was going on with her friends as she packed her hiking bag. Peter had rolled his eyes, telling her to be careful. That was the last time he saw her. 

They found her body in a ditch two days after he reported her missing, stab wounds littering her chest with no indication which fucking  _monster_ did it to her. Peter cried for weeks after he found out, even Flash hadn't been tormenting him as much. His grades were slipping, not too bad but bad enough that he got detention for neglecting his studies. He was okay now, he thinks. It's hard to tell.

He worked and studied all day, and at night he went out as Spider-Man. He had little time to sleep because if he slept then- then somebody could be getting hurt. Hurt like May got hurt. And if somebody was in trouble, and he didn't help them then what kind of hero was he?

Peter slipped on his familiar red and blue ensemble and slipped out the window, making sure to lock the front door before he left and swinging away, into the busy streets of late Friday night New York City. He managed to stop two robberies and a carjacking in three hours. Tonight was a slow night. Half-way through his patrol, he ran out of webbing in his left web-shooter and quickly stopped on a roof of a dingy motel to refill the device.

He unbuckled the straps and let the web-shooter fall off his wrist as he reached to his hip to grab a new tube of webbing. He had some music playing in his ears and he nodded his head to the beat as he fumbled with the cylinder of webbing, trying to slot it into the device but his gloved fingers kept fumbling and missing the small opening of the device.

"So, you make that yourself?" Came a loud, clear voice from behind him. Peter swivelled, standing up straight and shooting out his right wrist to web the person standing behind him. It clicked as he pressed down on the trigger. Empty.

The figure stepped into the light, wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and grease-covered blue jeans. That goatee was unmistakable, and neither was that shit-eating grin.

"Y-You're Tony Stark."

"And you're a criminal," Stark replied snarkily, folding his arms. Peter felt his blood run cold as he stammered out his response.

"I'm- what? No, you've- you're wrong." He stepped backwards, stumbling on the edge of the building. Shit.

"Mmm, well... We have a lot of evidence that you've done some real bad crimes, buddy! Y'know, arson, murder. The lot."

Peter felt his breath hitch in his throat. That was wrong. He's never done anything bad, not intentionally at least. This had to be a mistake. It _had_ to be.

 

Right?


	2. I Was Happier Without You

_Take some time off to self-reflect and self-measure_  
_Sometimes you need to be self-centered_  
_To understand yourself better_  
_I'm feeling self-possessed without the selfishness of self-obsession_  
_But if I do this for myself and no one else, then it is self-expression_

**_Flatsound - Be Yourself_ **

 

* * *

 

 

"Come on, kid, don't make this any harder than it has to be," Stark called to him from the other side of the rooftop, stepping back into his armour and letting it incase him. "Just come with me, it's really not that hard buddy."

But oh god, it really was hard.

Peter shook his head, so slightly that it would be barely noticeable unless you were looking, waiting for the movement. He let his hand slowly fall to his hip, plucking a cylinder of his webbing between his thumb and forefinger

"Come on, don't do anything stupid." There was a robotic gravel in Starks' voice now, the Iron Man suits blue eyes glowing eerily on the dingy motel roof, casting aqua blue light on the cracked surface. Peter bit his lip. He was about to do something really,  _really_ stupid. In one swift movement, he slotted the webbing into his right web-shooter, the empty left web-shooter still lying on the ground.

He spun on his heel, shot out his right wrist and let the webbing fly across the street. And he flew with it. The crisp late-night air whooshed in his ears as he swung away from Stark, whom he could hear yelling out in anger and the sound of his repulsors firing up. He had never swung with only one wrist before, but he was definitely going to have to learn quickly.

He swung around the corner gracefully, shooting out another web. Just as it connected with a wall a black arrow pierced through it, splitting the webbing in half and sending Peter falling down towards the ground. He shot out his left wrist, forgetting his web-shooter was still on the roof of that dirty motel. He huffed out a laugh and his idiocy and two seconds later he slammed face-first onto the pavement.

His mask began to fill with blood as he gathered himself off the side of the road and sprinted down an alleyway. He ducked into an alcove and threw off his uniform, shoving it into the backpack he always carried with him on patrol and taking out a pair of black jeans and his favourite black hoodie. He could hear people on the street gasping and exclaiming as the noisy thrusters of the Iron Man suit drew closer.

He walked out of the alley, head down and hands in pockets.

And somehow made it home without encountering another Avenger.

 

/

 

 

"Hey, hey! Don't eat that!" Peter was chasing the youngest daughter of the family he babysits for. She had a plastic velociraptor in her mouth as she squealed and ran throughout the large house, away from Peter. He only had fifteen minutes before the family arrived home, and he'd never actually met the father who was coming home. But he didn't exactly want  _this_ to be his first impression.

With three minutes to spare, he finally caught the little monster and yanked the toy out of her mouth and back in the toy box. He sat her on his lap and flicked on some kids T.V. She was entranced instantly and stopped whining almost like magic, transfixed on the overly bright colours of some kids show. It wasn't too long before the door clicked open and she screamed her fathers' name - 'Eric!' - and jumped out of his arms and into her fathers.

Peter turned from his place on the couch to smile at the man, who smiled back as he hugged his daughter.

"Hey, Peter, is it?" Peter nodded. "I need to give you something, in my office. Can you follow me?" And so Peter did.

He followed the tall man into his office and stood awkwardly as the man locked the door behind him and opened a cabinet that was full of whiskey and glasses. He poured himself a drink and took a long sip, eyes boring into Peter's the whole time. Peter only smiled. And the man sat down, motioning with his free hand for Peter to come over.

"Uh- what is it? Eric, sir." Peter was standing right next to him now, on his right side, smiling down nervously at the older man who was still staring up at him. He was snapped out of his thoughts when the man snaked his right arm around Peter and placed his hand on Peters' hip, massaging the skin. Peter felt his breath hitch in his throat.

"Mmm. I've been watching you a while." Eric continued massaging Peters' hip, sipping his drink. "Didn't think you'd be so pretty."

"P-Pretty?" Peter spluttered.

"Yeah, pretty." He used his hand to pull Peter onto his lap, breathing on the space between Peters neck and ear. "My wives out of town this week. If you keep this between us, I'll give you five grand out of my own pocket. Deal?" He whispered into Peters' ear, making him squirm.

And Peter nodded.

Eric groaned happily and pulled Peter into a kiss.

 

He didn't kiss back.

 


	3. Tomorrow Is Nearly Yesterday, And Everyday Is Stupid

_I said kill me now, I want to die_  
_I heard there's a chance at an afterlife_  
_I might not get let in_  
_But at least I won't be living_  
_Here I am, sandwiched between_  
_Heaven and Hell—oh what, they don't exist?_  
_Oh well, I wouldn't have gotten into the good one_  
_And I still won't be living to_  
_Ever see her with another man_  
_Oh, that really, really, really, really wasn't my plan_  
_I used to ask life to kill me slowly_  
_But now I beg you, just get on with it_

**_Kane Stang - My Smile Is Extinct_ **

 

* * *

 

 

 Peter strolled the isles up and down, his red and blue ensemble a sticking out like a sore thumb in the fairly full grocery store. It had been four days since he last went out as Spider-Man, and decided to go grocery shopping as Spidey so he could go in between the store and home quickly before his patrol. He picked up a carton of eggs and placed them in his basket, alongside the other items he'd picked out.

He went around the store one more time, gathering some fruits up before going to the self-checkout and putting his haul inside his backpack. He could practically feel all the eyes on him, the whispers just slightly above the music playing through his headphones. He slung his bag over his shoulder and made sure his eggs were safe before walking out. He had just made it into the more abandoned part of the area when he heard a familiar whooshing sound. He spun around to see Iron Man, yet again.

Petet let out a breathy laugh, which dissolved into a sigh.

"Come on, man. I've had a long day, can we do this later?" It had indeed been a long day, with homework and Eric constantly feeling him up secretly when his kids weren't looking, Peter was a bit exhausted. Although, that wasn't stopping him from planning to patrol later.

"I didn't think you'd be out this early, maybe take a bit longer off your criminal routine," Stark responded, still hovering in the air and causing the dirty streets to glow orange and blue, orange from his repulsors and blue from the eyes, which Peter still did find a little bit creepy. 

"And I already told you, I am _not_ a criminal." Peter gritted his teeth, looking up at Stark through his goggles.

Stark landed, and Peter could hear him sighing, a soft and robotic whir.

"Look, kid. Don't have all day for you to chatter." He stepped forward, his metal hand being placed on Peter's hip as he began to speak into his comms. Peter couldn't breathe. 

 

_"Come on, Peter. Just once" Eric said._

_And Peter did it._

_But he kept asking and asking. And asking again and again and **again**. It was **never** 'just once'._

_He kept touching Peter on his hips, on his waist. Calling him beautiful, calling him a slut._

_**It was never, ever just once.**  
_

 

He couldn't move. His breath was caught in his throat.

And then he was lifted off the ground, snapping him out of his thoughts. Stark was talking, making fun of him maybe. But his heart was pounding in his ears, and his eyes were watering as Stark flew over the city, towards the Avengers Compound he assumed. The ground was a blur below them, he was obviously going Mach 5. Which is.... around 1700 metres a second, and that's 6120 kilometres an hour... The compounds around 400km away, so that'd take them- And they're already here.

His legs felt like jelly as Stark landed on the roof of the building, stepping out of his suit and grabbing Peter by his arms and dragging him over to the stairs. He took Peter down to the Avengers Lounge, where four others were huddled in one big blanket and watching Toy Story at full volume. Peters ears ringed. When Stark spoke, the sound muted.

"Guess who caught a spider!" He called, and the four people turned around. Peters vision was full of black spots, one of Starks' hands was still on his waist while the other held his wrists. His nose burned as if he was going to cry. The other inhabitants of the room started chatting, but Peter just stood there willing himself to not cry.

"Took you long enough." Someone joked, everyone laughed except Peter who just looked down in shame.

"Yeah, wasn't that hard. Didn't put up a fight this time."  Stark replied, a grin evident in his voice but Peter refused to look up to confirm it. "Might wanna give his parents a call, he can't be older than twenty."

"My parents are dead." Peter spat venomously.

The room went quiet as the words sunk in.

"Caregiver then?"

"Dead."

He could hear Stark swallow. 

"Take his mask off so we can process him, or whatever we're meant to do now." He thinks that might have been Hawkeye.

"Wait-" Peter tried to back away, only to have Stark move the hand that was restraining his wrists to the back of his neck, lifting his mask up, up and over his head.

 

"What the fuck?!"

 


	4. Two Hearts And No Brain

_In my life will I make a difference?_  
_In my death will I be missed?_  
_Will I be granted some sort of an afterlife_  
_Or will I just cease to exist?_  
_This fear makes me feel so naive_  
_I wish that I could just accept_  
_But I'm chilled by the redundancy of_  
_Thoughts collected, but not kept._

**_Crywank - Memento Mori_ **

 

* * *

 

 

"What the fuck?!"

Peter's mask was dropped to the floor, as the four Avengers sitting on the couch stood up quickly, their gazes boring into him. They started to surround him, their voices blurring together as a hand was placed on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him down - he hadn't even realised how quickly he was breathing.

"Don't- Don't touch me!" Peter yelled, backing away and into Starks' chest. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes as they attempted to comfort him.

"Tony- you never said that Spider-Man was a kid!"

"Look, I didn't fucking know!"

Peter looked up, realising who was in front of him. Hawkeye, Bruce Banner, Captain America and Wanda Maximoff all stared back at him as a tear slipped out of his eye, his throat dry and words struggling to form.

"Friday, do a facial recognition. Please." Bruce was massaging his forehead with his right hand as Tony half guided, half dragged Peter towards the couch where Peter reluctantly sat. A hologram appeared from the coffee table, showing his own records. A disembodied female voice began to read out what was written on the hologram, filling the now quiet room.

"Peter Parker, born 10th of August 2001. Attends Midtown School of Science and Technology. Currently lives alone in Queens, 4.0 GPA. Works at Yakutsk Deli, Queens. No criminal record."

There was a stunned silence.

"Wait- _two thousand and one_?!" Steve turned to look at him, his mouth hanging open. Peter felt his blood run cold but nodded anyway.

"Fucking- goddamnit!" Stark yelled angrily, throwing himself down on the couch to his right with his head in his hands. 

Peter looked down at his hands and picked at some peeling skin by his nail as the adults argued between one another. Then a loud, bass-boosted remix of Despacito came out of his bag. Ned was calling him. The adults turned to stare at him as he quickly dug around in his bag, no one reaching forward to stop him. He accepted the facetime call and held out his phone in front of him, carefully adjusting himself so the background was a plain wall.  The adults in the room merely watched on with interest.

"Hey, Peter! Where are you? You said you'd come by after patrol so we could start the new Lego death star." Ned was pouting and Peter could see Hawkeye and Bruce snicker at the mention of Legos. Peter hummed slightly.

"I don't think I can tonight." Ned's mouth dropped open and he whined.

"Come on, don't tell me Eric's- he's doing... that stuff again." Peter felt a weight on his chest at his friends complaining.

"How- How do you know about that?" Peter hissed into the receiver, looking up at the other occupants of the room who were staring back at him, their eyes gleaming with interest as Ned began to speak again.

"I'm sorry! MJ told me. She said that you said that Eric was... doing bad things, to you. But she said you didn't say what! And now I'm really worried. Why can't you come?"

"I told MJ that in _confidence_." Peter snapped, digging his nails into his thigh as he slunk to the floor, back against a plain white wall.

"I know! It's- I know it's hard, after... after May died. And you have to work all the time, I never see you 'cept for school. I just wish we could hang out more, and... I understand you don't have a lot of time but me and MJ think you're shutting yourself off from us! And that's really shitty Peter, we just want to help you and you won't let us."

"Look- Ned, I... I have to go." Peter shut down his phone as he bit down on his lip, gnawing at a thread of loose skin. He looked up to see Hawkeye rifling through his bag. "Hey, man. I got eggs in there." Hawkeye merely shrugged, dumping the now very cracked eggs on the floor as Peter stood up again, stepping over to the man.

"Where'd Mr Stark go?" Peter just now noticed he was gone, alongside Wanda.

"Sorry about this kid." So, he was behind him then. And then a sharp prick was in his neck, he instantly felt woozy.

 

"Oh... worm..." Peter managed to mumble before collapsing on the floor.

 


	5. You're Selfless, Isn't That Enough?

_Get a load of this man without a plan_  
_He doesn't wanna go to school but doesn't wanna upset his dad just_  
_Get out of bed, it's not that easy_  
_When your throat goes cold and your arms feel queasy_  
_Been in this state for one too many days_  
_And everyone I love is so many miles away_  
_Snap out of this_  
_Cause you're so much better than this, boy_

**_BG Noise - Cavetown_ **

 

* * *

 

Peter cracked his eyes open to a bright, plain white room. His head ached as he forced himself to not fall asleep again. He went to brush his hair out of his eyes when he realised he couldn't, his arms were bolted to the chair he was sitting in with strange, heavy, metal cuffs. He was still in his shoddy Spider-man suit, his blue sweatpants dirty and red hoodie laced with blood from the countless injuries he's gained from fighting. After a while, the blood stopped washing out.

Why was he here, again?

He couldn't remember anything since yesterday.

"E-Eric? I- I don't want to do this anymore... whatever this is, please stop!" Peter croaked out, straining his voice so it echoed throughout the room. He felt his nose burning, tears trying to force themselves out as he struggled against the heavy cuffs pinning him to the chair. He pulled and struggled until his arms ached so bad he thought they'd simply snap in two. No matter how hard he strained his ears, he couldn't hear anything.

"Please..." He whispered to himself, dropping his head in shame as the tears flowed. His breathing was ragged, erratic. Peter tried hard to control it, but that only made his breaths heavier and more desperate as sobs racked his body. He struggled against the cuffs again, the metal digging into his wrist until crimson lines appeared on the sleeves of his hoodie. He couldn't breathe.

"H-... Hello?!" He cried out, straining his dry throat. "Please! I'm in here, I- I can't get out!" Tears streamed down his red cheeks. "Anybody! Please..."

But nobody came.

 

/

 

Peter didn't remember falling asleep. But when he did eventually wake up, it wasn't in the harshly bright room he previously was in. The new room had a vaguely hospital-like appearance and it smelled strongly of bleach. His arms were bolted to the hospital bed he was lying in, and his suit was gone. He managed to wriggle off the sheet covering him and saw he was wearing a pair of plain black sweatpants and a white S.H.I.E.L.D t-shirt. He wondered who changed his clothes.

His headache was still present as he attempted to sit up. It took a few minutes of awkward shuffling to manoeuvre his body into a sitting position, but he managed to sort of do it. And this is all too familiar to him. Waking up, in a bed that isn't his. Not exactly remembering how he got there, or who put him there but vaguely remembering why he's there.

 

**_"Come on Peter, I know you want to do this."_ **

**_Cold hands with sharp, pointed nails running up and down, up and down all over his body. Up and down._ **

**_But his throat is tight. Lips forming the words "stop" but the plea never escaping his mouth. Eyes full of tears, the room spinning as he's touched._ **

**_"You're such a slut for this, aren't you?"_ **

**_And maybe he is. He's not stopping it, right? He's weak. Spider-Man wouldn't let this happen._ **

**_So why is Peter?_ **

**_"You want this, whore. Stop acting like you don't."_ **

 

There's a hand on his shoulder and Peter didn't even realise he was screaming.

"Stop it! I don't- don't wanna do it anymore!" Peter begged, ears ringing and black spots clouding his vision as the person grabbing him tried to speak, their words were drowned out by Peters cries. "Please... Don't touch me. Not- I don't... don't wanna. I don't like it, please..." Peter sobbed, the person started calling in other people as he struggled in their grip. 

"Hey, hey!" A voice calls over his begging, and Peter snaps his head up to see Stark running through the door. "Get off the kid, would ya?!" Peter sees now a medical team, all holding him down on the bed. He stops squirming and instead breathes heavily, looking up at Stark through his hair which is getting just a bit too long.

The medical team apologizes and they all quickly scurry out, sending him worried glances on their way.

"So... Who's Eric?" Stark asks him, pulling up a chair from the desk Peter only now notices was in the room. 

Peter shrugs, looking down in shame.

"Come on, kid, you kept screaming for him to leave you alone." Stark leans over and places a hand on his knee, Peter flinches at the contact which causes Starks eyebrows to crease together. "Did he hurt you?" Starks dark brown eyes study his face, but Peter refuses to let the neutral mask he's put on slip.

"I'm _fine_."

Stark sighs softly, standing up and shoving the chair back under the desk. He says a goodbye before leaving the room. Peter can hear the lock click into place quietly.

 

 

But he's not fine. He hasn't been fine for as long as he can remember.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh hi if ur reading this i hope u enjoyed the chapter!!!!!! sorry for taking a break ive been busy with school and work and being an adult


	6. Show Me I’m Not Disgusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this bitch having flashbacks.
> 
> flashbaks are in italics b t dubs

 

_And yeah, I believe that there's a god_   
_I believe that there is something out there other than my thoughts_   
_I believe it was never science against religion_   
_It wasn't poor against wealth_   
_It was always me against myself_   
_And I'm so scared who's going to win_

**_Flatsound_ **

 

 

* * *

 

 

_**"Peter?"** Peter turns around, meeting Ned's worried gaze. Ned's holding the straps of his backpack tightly as their eyes bore into one another.  **"I'm- uh, I'm sorry about.... about May."**_

_Peter's throat closed up as a sob welled in his throat. It had only been three days since May was found, stab wounds covering her body, in that ditch. Peter had cried for hours into his pillow, ignoring Ned's worried calls and texts and refusing to go to school. He tried hard to avoid Ned and MJ once he managed to return to school just today, but seeing as they shared classes it was hard to avoid the pair._

_**" 's fine, Ned,"** Peter mumbled, grabbing his back from the locker he was previously rummaging through and slamming the door shut, the metal clanging and echoing through the empty hallway. Everyone else had already left, chattering happily without a care in the world and looking down at their phones._

**_"No, it isn't!"_ ** _Ned insisted, grabbing Peters shoulder. Peter jerked away from the touch, eyes fiery._

_**"Just leave me the- the fuck alone, okay?!**" He yelled before storming down the hall, not bothering to look back._

_He ran home that day._

 

_/_

 

_Peter was doing the dishes when Eric had come home from work, slamming the front door shut. He was smiling at his kids, but Peter could see the steely look in his eyes. Eric took the kids upstairs to play in their room before coming to the kitchen, where Peter was trying hard to focus on the bubbles in the sink, the lime dish soap burning his nose as he scrubbed at a Dora the Explorer bowl._

_Peter could tell why Eric was mad. Their eldest son Nathan, who was only eleven, was chattering excitedly during lunch about how 'daddy was trying to get a promotion' and it was clear Eric hadn't gotten it. Eric was fuming silently as he sat down at the breakfast bar. Peter moved away from the sink, drying his hands on the pastel yellow apron Eric's wife gave him when he first started babysitting for them._

_Peter grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a large, circular ice cube. He dropped the ice into a whiskey glass and poured the alcohol over it. He didn't say a word as he placed the drink in front of Eric. Eric looked up from where he was glaring at the table, his eyes full of pure anger._

_**"Do I look like some kind o' fucking alcoholic to you?!"** Eric demanded, grabbing the glass and throwing it to the floor as he stood up off the stool he was sitting on.  **"You fucking idiot. You're a mistake, Peter. You fuck everything up!"** He raised his hand and brought it down hard on Peter's cheek, knocking him onto the marble floor.  
_

_Peter let out a short sob, mostly out of shock._

_**"Oh fuck, Peter... baby. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."** Eric quickly dropped to the floor as well, gathering Peter in his arms and murmuring apologies into Peters soft brown hair. Peter felt a tear slip down his face.  **"Hey. Baby... Peter, look at me. I'm sorry."**_

_Peter just nodded solemnly, wishing he believed him._

 

_/_

 

 

_There's a knife in Peters' thigh. And he's not so sure if he minds._

_He finally feels something other than emptiness, he feels pain._

_His memory is fuzzy, and the room spins everytime he makes a futile attempt at standing up. He's lying on the floor of his cold apartment, the icy wooden floors seeping through his hoodie and sending shivers all over his body. But his thigh is hot and slick with blood._

_Peter can vaguely remember attempting to stop a man from stealing a motorbike, but the man threw a knife into his thigh before Peter could stop him. Peter isn't sure if he is mad about it._

_Maybe the pain is what he needs right now._

 

_/_

 

 **_"No, no, no, no. This sucker's electrical, but I need a nuclear reaction to- to generate the 1.21 gigawatts of electricity I need."_ ** _Peter, Ned and MJ are all huddled up on Ned's couch. Peter isn't really focused on the movie, it's just garbled words and flashing colours that his brain doesn't really want to see._

_The pair of friends two his right are engrossed in the film, eyes glazed over as they mindlessly throw popcorn into their mouths. The words coming from the old t.v. Ned has precariously balanced on his messy coffee table are meaningless to him._

_Maybe Peter is just a nuisance, never paying attention to words and constantly repeating himself like a stuck record. Not contributing properly to the conversation. Even Ilia called him out on it, saying a customer had complained about how negative he was being while he served them. He can't even remember when that customer came in, or what they looked like._

_The minutes passed by like a blur, sounds mixing together to create a bizarre kind of white noise._

_It's hard to focus._

 

_/_

 

_Maybe Peter's just being irrational._

_Dramatic._

_His life isn't as bad as others, he's lucky. He's a superhero, he helps people._

_All he wants to do is help people, but how is he supposed to help others when he doesn't even know how to help himself?_

_It's okay, he's just scared._

_Scared of himself._

 

_/_

 

_Peter thinks he likes music. Some music is really sad, but so is he. And that sounds pathetic, lame even. Like a tumblr quote that someone would post in 2013._

_But sometimes music makes him feel things, music can hurt you. Music can make you happy. It can make you angry, even._

_And Peter finds himself more often than not with his headphones in his ears, playing a tune he doesn't know as he leaves his phone on shuffle just letting songs fly by. Some lyrics hit hard, cut deep and some lyrics are just cries for help from a depressed musician, plucking a melancholy tune._

_Peter tries to make music, using an old guitar May had bought from the thrift shop down the road._

_His fingers hurt too much to continue._

_The guitar lays on the floor of Mays room, collecting dust._

 

_/_

 

_Sleeping is starting to become difficult. He tries and he tries but he can't seem to forget the feel of cold, rough hands running over his waist and thighs. Can't forget the cold words uttered by classmates when he strolls the halls at school. And he can't forget May._

_Some nights, when Peter can't fall asleep, Peter will stand in front of the mirror. Sometimes he cries, but not loud sobbing, just silent streams of tears down his cheeks as he grips the edge of the porcelain sink with his nails, digging into something and wishing that his thoughts would stop tormenting him for just one second._

_He tries to anchor himself to something, anything at all._

_But there isn't anything left for him._

_Or anybody._

 

_/_

 

Peter wakes up. He's not sure how long he was out, but he's glad he's not asleep anymore. Memories torment him when he sleeps, and it's caused him to sleep less and less, patrol more and more. He wonders how much his grades have slipped since his absence. Although, it's not like they matter to him anymore - does anything matter anymore, actually? Not really.

His head doesn't hurt, not yet at least. He's in a different room _again_. Peter wonders how many rooms the building must have. Too many, it would seem.

And Peter realises, as he goes to instinctively brush his dark brown hair out of his eyes, that his arms are no longer cuffed to the bed. But, god, his muscles ache and scream with the effort.

His body hurts. Hurts so much. The pains kicking in, waves of it attacking his body as he just lays there and takes it. Letting it happen. It's what he deserves, isn't it?

He doesn't even realise there's somebody else in the room.

"Peter."

A cool voice breaks him out of his racing thoughts, and he weakly looks over in the direction the call of his name came from. There's a man sitting in the chair Stark sat in however many days ago and Peter thinks he might have seen him before. He seems tall, wearing a pair of black slacks and a burgundy button up that's rolled to his elbows. His hair is dark, with grey-white patches on the sides. And his hands are shaking almost as much as Peter is.

"D-Do I k-know you?" Peter didn't expect to stutter, but his throat is dry and aching. He sounds pathetic, really. Fits him well.

"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. Tony asked me to watch over you while the Avengers are out." The man - Stephen, replies casually. His shaking hands are moved from the arms of the chair to a folded position in his lap as he speaks.

"W-What k-kind? Of doctor, I mean." Peter croaks, moving his freezing cold left hand to his throat as he talks.

"I was a Neurosurgeon. But, not anymore." Stephen sighs, mostly to himself.

"Not anymore?" Peter half smiles because for once, he is genuinely interested in what one of the adults has to say.

 

/

 

Peter and Stephen talk for several hours, although it is mostly Stephen talking about how he became a Master of the Mystic Arts - which Peter decided is just a way to say 'wizard' without people thinking of _Harry Potter_ or something else like that. Peter purposefully avoids any talk of May or Eric, keeping his responses short and simple. Changing his friends' names, and avoiding any emotional topics. He's gotten quite good at it over the past few months, staying neutral, that is.

After a while, Stephen does have to leave. And although Peter won't admit it aloud, he thinks he'll miss the man's company.

He tries to go back to sleep after Stephen and he shares their goodbyes, but rest will not come. Peter instead just stares at the roof, losing himself in thoughts of his friends and family. He wonders if he'll ever see Ned again. And although that's a dramatic thing to think, it's probably possible at this rate.

After several minutes of laying and gazing at the plain white roof, Peter decides he doesn't plan to stay any longer. He carefully gets out of the bed, muscles and bones aching in discomfort as he stands. He manages to make it to the window to look for a latch or an opening, maybe, when the door swings open. 

Peter turns to jump back in the bed, like he used to do as a kid when May and Ben would come in to check on him and he'd be sitting on the floor just playing with some old legos, but his knees buckle beneath him and he has to grip onto the wall with his fingertips to stop himself from collapsing onto the too-clean tiled floor.

He doesn't know who is in the doorway, the room is spinning and then there's an arm snaked around his waist. He's lifted off his feet and taken to god knows where.

Once his vision stops swimming, he realises he's back where it all started.

 

 

The Avengers lounge.

 

 

 


	7. Bury Me Down In The Mariana Trench

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SORRY THIS CHAP IS SO SHORT IM PERISHING
> 
>  
> 
> also writers block is a bitch

_What does it mean when somebody says sorry?_  
_Is it true regret or just a formality?_  
_I've lost far too many days of my life_  
_And I know I won't get sleep tonight_  
_But it's alright, yeah it's alright, yeah it's alright_

**_Cavetown - Trenchh_ **

 

* * *

 

 

Peter struggles weakly against the strong grip holding him off the ground, but his body aches with the effort and he quickly gives up on his attempts.  He can barely lift his head to see who's holding him, his neck cracking when he tries to move it. Peter's then promptly dropped onto the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a muted thud and he lets out a disgruntled huff.

"Don't be so rough with the kid, Buck." He can hear Stark call out from the other side of the room. Peter furrows his eyebrows in frustration at being called 'kid' and tries to stand up again, his knees weak and head spinning. He barely makes it off the ground before collapsing on the floor yet again, nails digging into the carpet in anger. Footsteps approach him.

"Hey, Peter? You're okay. Just breathe." Peter looks up, deep brown eyes meeting grey. Stephen puts a hand onto his shoulder, mumbling to him and slowly guiding him to the couch again. Peter sits down thankfully, sinking into the soft seat. He looks down at his lap, brown hair covering his forehead and brushing at his eyelashes. "Breathe for me, Peter."

Stephen goes to stand up but Peter grabs his wrist, digging his nails in as a silent plea.  _Don't go._ Stephen just nods gently, sitting down next to Peter so their knees touch as Peter unlatches his hand from Stephens' wrist and puts it in his lap again.

"Er- Look, Peter. We're... really sorry. We thought you'd done all those crimes... when- shit, I mean, you're just a fucking kid, seriously!" Stark sighs, walking over with a glass of whiskey in hand. 

_Whiskey._

_Broken glasses._

_Lime dish soap._

**_Eric._ **

Peter instinctively backs away, his back banging against the couch as Starks' eyebrows furrow together. "We didn't mean to hurt you, kid." He explains, sitting down on the couch to the right of Peter.

"It's- It's not... not _that_ ," Peter mumbles, eyes trained on the drink in Starks' hand. "I'm- I understand, it's- there was false evidence against me, so..." He shrugs, averting his gaze from the drink to up at Stark who just smiles slightly back at him, the corners of his eyes creasing.

"And, uhm. We gave you some- some injections. They made you weaker, sorry. We can undo it later." Stark apologises, rubbing the back of his neck in shame. Peter scowls. So they drugged him, then? No wonder he can barely even  _stand_. They loaded him with drugs and left him with his thoughts for hours on end. Assholes.

Peter felt numb. Although that was a constant feeling nowadays, that didn't mean he liked it. He hated it. Feeling hollow, like... like you're nothing. And everything is just dull buzzing in the back of your head and your hands' tingle when you try to move them. Your throat goes cold and your arms feel too heavy to lift. Your knees are weighed down by your thought and you just can't walk. _That_ feeling.

And he knows, he fucking knows he's better than this. He can be better,  _do_ better. But self-deprecating thoughts invade and interrupt and he can't breathe. Like someone dropped a building on his chest - and he does know how that feels, actually.

The adults are talking again, and Peter picks at a scab on his wrist. He can't quite remember how it got there.

Maybe he deserved this.

He's been so shitty lately, snapping at MJ and Ned when they talk to him and he keeps distancing himself from them. Cancelling plans last minute with bullshit excuses everybody knows aren't true at all but he keeps on lying anyways because he doesn't know how to tell the truth anymore.

Because the truth hurts.

He's so so not okay and he thinks he might be dying, even if he's not there's still a lingering feeling, a thought in his head. Telling him he's worthless, calling him the names Eric uses on him when he's angry.

 

 

He deserves this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do y'all want peter to find someone to dat owo
> 
> not michelle or ned tho because i feel like it'd be weird lmao they're too good as friends !!!!!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> and no like,,, fantastic 4 because i have NO fuckin clue who anyone from that is. same with x-men.


End file.
